


Trees of Green

by Sara Generis (kanadka)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Comedy, Dialogue Heavy, Drugs, Gen, Inappropriate Humor, Marijuana, Swearing, and this is like a stoner film, so if you've ever seen one of those, they're stoners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 12:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/Sara%20Generis
Summary: "Listen," says Prussia flatly, gesturing with the knife again. "I'm a thousand-something? I've eaten a lot of bread in my time. Do you think bread this quality just shits itself out of an oven in Königsberg? No. I have putthoughtandeffortandskillinto this craft and you will appreciate it.""You have a lot of emotions about bread," says Canada."I have a lot of emotions about bread!" Prussia shouts.





	Trees of Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klementienchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klementienchen/gifts).



> A birthday gift for a very good friend <3 allow me to introduce to you the stoner trio: Canada, Netherlands, and Prussia, doing pretty much nothing but getting high and talking for the entire fic.
> 
> edit 22.03.2018: some [_very cool person_](http://yveinthesky.tumblr.com) made this fic a MOODBOARD WOW AMAZING A+++ 12987/10

When the doorbell rings, Prussia buzzes whoever it is in without a word, forgetting that he should probably tell who it is where exactly his new apartment is? So he opens the door and hollers into the hallway, "Fifth floor!"

Old Guy from across the hall opens up. "It's _quiet hours!_ " he hisses. Prussia ignores him. Man's probably deaf. Every hour is a quiet hour for him.

Canada has arrived first. "Hey. Dutchie here yet?" Prussia holds the door open, and Canada pushes past and flings his flannel overcoat into the corner.

"You're a monster. No, he texted. On the train, but train's late. You found the place okay?"

"GPS solves many a mystery," says Canada. "Modern technology, remember?"

"There's actually multiple streets with this name, but only one in Berlin," replies Prussia. "I figured, probably you were clever enough to figure it out. And if you weren't, then we'd have a story. _Another_ one."

Canada rolls his eyes. "Yeah, thanks." He looks around. "This is nice," he says. He sniffs the air. "Did you start without us?" Prussia grins and wiggles his eyebrows.

In an hour, Netherlands has (finally) joined them. Old Guy from across the hall is still pissed, because he thinks he can hear Canada and Prussia through the walls and if that's true then he's probably only pissed that he can't understand them, because Prussia isn't speaking German because Canada doesn't know a damn word of it, though that's clearly changing today with Prussia's Excellent Language Lessons.

Netherlands flings his coat across the couch. Monsters. Canada's rolling him a joint. A nice, fat one too. Of his own weed. Prussia glowers without meaning to. "You better be intending to pass that," he says.

"You assholes are two tokes ahead of me," says Netherlands, but as they talk, they usually pass. It's like the speaker with the conch, except it's getting high.

"We got busy talking German," says Prussia.

"Hah, yeah," says Canada, "hoch-deutsch, right? Get it? _High_."

"Pfft," says Prussia. "Cute but wrong."

"Yeah, well, I don't get why high in German is.... wide." Canada flicks the weed forward with an elegant motion of his fingers and passes it to Netherlands.

"It can also mean wide, but it's clear to anybody under the age of thirty that if you say _alterrr bist du total breit oder was_ , then they definitely mean they're high."

"Maybe it's like... you're so high you're too wide to move," guesses Netherlands, "and you just sit there like a stone."

"Like a literal stone, that is stoned!" Canada's eyes are very large and wide, and also high, because high is wide.

"Yes!" exclaims Prussia, "oh my god. This makes so much sense."

"Did we just solve the universe? I feel like we just solved the universe."

"Ahh, young one," says Prussia, since he knows that pisses Canada off, "there's still so much more to solve."

"All we need now is an epic quest like in those movies and I'll have another checked off my _list de bucket_." Canada is pronouncing bucket like bouquet again. "But for something that fancy, we're gonna need ..." Canada pauses for useless dramatic effect, which is how Prussia knows he's really high, "... another blunt."

"Yes."

"Yeah, I'm too sober for this conversation," says Netherlands, taking his first puff and ending it with a long, satisfied exhale. "Can you two maybe slow down?"

"Hah, sure," says Prussia sarcastically. He grabs the blunt from Netherlands and takes himself a nice drag. "Hey, why is the h in sure invisible?"

"There's no h in sure," says Canada.

English never makes anybody feel like they've solved the universe. "There should be. - Hey! There's an h in should."

Canada accepts the blunt as Prussia passes. "I don't make the rules of English," he says.

"There are no rules in English," Netherlands mutters.

"That's not true! Misery is a rule, eh? Be miserable. That's the fuckin' rule." Canada blows a smoke ring then shoots a plume of smoke through it.

"Show off," says Prussia.

"You just wish you could blow as well as me," says Canada.

"He didn't mean it like that," says Netherlands.

"Yes I did," says Canada. He passes to Netherlands.

"Dumbass," says Netherlands, but not without affection. He takes a drag and exhales thoughtfully. "Hey, you got anything to eat in this place?"

Prussia rolls his eyes. "Already? You just got here. You can't already be munchy."

"I am a stomach with legs. Feed me."

"In an hour, maybe," decides Prussia.

"You did buy shit today, though, right? Nothing's open."

"Nothing's open?" asks Canada. "What's there to do today, anything?"

"Nope. Holiday," supplies Prussia. "Reformation day. Few centuries ago some asshole nailed some shit to a church. Okay, you're done already, pass it here!"

"Greedy," says Netherlands, again not without affection. "You just wanna try blowing smoke rings."

"Do not," says Prussia, who did. "Keep talking like that, see if I feed you anything."

"What's on TV?" asks Canada.

"Probably nothing," says Prussia. "I dunno, find us something."

As Canada clicks around, Netherlands exclaims, "Oh hey! That's that show, with the people."

They listen for about ten seconds. "This isn't in any language we speak, is it," says Prussia. The others are watching the TV and not looking at him, so he attempts a smoke ring. It comes out like a wiggly cloud. He definitely meant to do that.

"It's supposed to be good," says Netherlands.

"Good? The acting is practically robotic."

"Nah," decides Canada, "robots act better than they do."

"They do not," says Prussia. "I don't wanna hear about your crazy robots. Not this again."

"I am just saying," says Canada, "that your anti-technology is almost a fervour and that there's no point in delaying the inevitable. Bud, you gonna pass that joint here or you gonna make fail smoke rings for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Eat ash," says Prussia. "There's totally a point! I don't wanna be taken over by robots! Germany's already doing my job. Robots would take over his job! At doing my job. And then they'd make us slaves." Netherlands laughs derisively, a short sarcastic puff of air. "Look, man, I've done my research," Prussia concludes.

"You mean you've watched a lot of shitty scifi," says Netherlands.

"I don't make fun of you when you have _sofakartoffeln_ days!"

"My _bankhanger_ days are like, once in a blue moon," Netherlands replies.

"Which is why you save your best shit for us," says Canada, batting his eyelashes.

" _Your_ couch potatoism, meanwhile, is practically a way of life," Netherlands continues.

"Yes," says Prussia, thrilled that someone is finally getting it, "exactly. I have been telling people this for years. The Tao of Prussia. Shit, that sounds great, I should write a book."

Canada cackles. "Everybody would expect it to be like, The Art of War Part Two, but in fact it's just How To Be a Shitlord."

"No, shitlords are assholes," says Prussia, "it's shit _great elector_ , I'll have you know."

"He's lying through his fucking teeth, by the way," adds Netherlands, "he's actually stupidly productive."

"Don't give away my cover," says Prussia.

"What would you possibly be doing?" asks Canada flatly.

"Hey! I do ... things."

"That sounds really fishy," says Netherlands.

"You never come to any of the meetings," says Canada.

"You're never visible in any of them but nobody ever gives you shit for that," Prussia argues.

"If I'm visible, people ask me questions," says Canada.

"Anyway, the meetings are boring and no work ever gets done in them. If Germany ever figures that out, he'll want to stop coming to them too." Prussia reflects a bit. "Hey actually, I think I really won out on this deal. He takes all the shitty meetings, I get that time to get things done."

"Like shitposting online?" says Netherlands.

"That takes a lot of time out of my day," says Prussia. "Not just anybody can be a shitposter. I have important life experience."

Netherlands does that weird thing where he takes a drag and holds the smoke in his mouth and then exhales it really slowly so that his jaw is wreathed in smoke. It looks absurdly erotic. Prussia's not staring. "So why can't the robots take the shitty meetings? Then Germany could get some fuckin' work done."

"Yeah," agrees Canada, "your poor frickin' brother, eh?"

Prussia shakes his head. "No, no. Robots would make the meetings efficient. Then Germany would want to go to them."

"So let him."

"But they wouldn't! Because after the robot revolution we would all be enslaved."

"Look," says Netherlands, "even if they did enslave us all, they would realise very quickly that they are still more efficient than us. Robots are always more efficient than humans."

"Hmm, that's true," says Prussia.

"Maybe they'll keep us as pets," says Canada.

"We'll be really entertaining pets," says Prussia.

Netherlands squints. "So, jesters?"

"Can robots feel amusement?"

"If we program them correctly, yes," Netherlands muses. "We could make a startup out of this."

"No," says Prussia. "That's helping the robot revolution. You are gonna assist in our downfall. No startups!"

"That one doesn't look very amused," says Canada, pointing to the TV again. "I think he's getting broken up with. Look at her face," decides Canada. The actress says something in ...Romanian? Maybe. "'I never loved you, Robo-John!'" supplies Canada in an electronic-sounding falsetto. "'I'm sleeping wi-' _oh christ_ ," he breaks off to cough mid-sentence.

Netherlands laughs. "Serves you right. What was even that voice?"

"Water's in the kitchen," says Prussia.

"Yeah, some host you are," Canada croaks out, and gets up to retrieve a glass.

The remote control is too far from either Netherlands or Prussia so, powerless, they continue watching Strange Romanian Soap Opera for a few minutes as Canada rummages around. Prussia hears the faucet engage but the water keeps going. Takes him a second to realise it's not the soap opera. "Are any of them clean?" yells Prussia.

"You know they're not," yells Canada in return. "Twatwaffle!"

"Thanks for doing my dishes," Prussia yells, and smokes the rest of Canada's joint.

Netherlands laughs, but in a moment feels bad. "He'll wash, I'll dry," he volunteers.

"Nah, you sit and smoke," says Prussia, "they're my goddamn dishes and you're still too sober." Netherlands needs little further justification or reasoning and as Prussia lifts himself off the couch which is half collapsed and terrible lumbar support but was admittedly free from a cheapo Facebook group, Netherlands is rolling himself another joint. Prussia heads to the kitchen.

"Alright, here- wait," says Prussia. The water, he has just realised, has stopped.

Canada is at the sink with a dish in one hand and a sponge in the other and one of Prussia's nice spelt sourdough buns stuffed in his mouth. Spend nothing on furniture, spend everything on bread. A motto to live by. "Mm ffnm mr mrrr," he says.

"You found the buns, I see," Prussia says dryly.

"Buns?" says Netherlands, from the other room.

"No! There's no buns! Why can't you be more like Old Guy across the hall?" Prussia retorts over his shoulder. "Bread is dessert, finish your joint." He returns to Canada. "Thing is," he says, "I definitely remember hiding those."

Canada puts down the dish and flicks water off his hand. Then he crams the rest of the bun in his mouth. "At least enjoy that!" says Prussia.

"I had to go looking for dish soap," says Canada, when his mouth is free again.

"The dish soap was not in the bread box," says Prussia.

"Uh, yes it fuckin' was, bud," protests Canada. "You were probably high. Anyway, I got my water, and my bread."

"I heard there was bread," says Netherlands, who has appeared right behind Prussia.

"Fuck's sake, you're gonna eat me out of house and home on a Feiertag," says Prussia. But a snack sounds like a good idea. "Fine," he says, "but we're eating the old stuff first." He takes out what's left of the Roggenschrotbrot and grabs the knife.

"How old is old," says Canada, sceptical.

"Not that old. It's going in the oven," explains Prussia. "You'll see."

"I mean, as long as you have flour, you can just make us more bread," argues Netherlands.

Prussia looks at him like he has suddenly become black and white. He blinks - Netherlands shifts back into colour. "Are you crazy?" he says. "I'm not taking my well-deserved day off to make you bread." He is also way too high for that. They'll wind up burning down the whole Haus and then Old Guy will have nothing to complain about.

"I'd pay you in weed," says Netherlands, and this is tempting.

"We'll discuss terms of the agreement later," says Prussia, and grabs the bread knife. He begins slicing the loaf, and then sectioning the slices into smaller cubes. "Get me an oven pan and some oil," he says. "I want something crunchy."

"Why the fuck would I know where you put those," says Canada.

"You already made yourself at home in my bread box, you lost sous-chef immunity." Prussia is gesturing with the point of the knife as he speaks. Should probably stop doing that.

"Don't want me to steal your bread, don't have such delicious bread."

"What are you even planning?" asks Netherlands. "Baking in a pan with oil. Isn't that croutons?"

"No," says Prussia mulishly, "croutons are French. I call these.... bread salad."

Canada laughs derisively but watches Prussia set down the bread knife to season the cubes with the oil. Some sous-chef he is, watching Prussia do all the work. Someone's not getting any bread salad. - But then he'll steal all of Prussia's buns. This is a dilemma. "Hey, this looks like that thing Russia made once and was munching on during a meeting. I think he called them suhariki?"

"UM," says Prussia, "this is my recipe and if you want some, you won't mention that asshat's face or name again." He picks up the knife again. Not enough salad. _It's salad_.

"Yeah, I'll try real hard not to mention his face," says Canada drily.

"Gonna season these?" asks Netherlands. "They'd be really good with speculaas flavour."

"You say that about everything."

"And I'm always correct, everything is better with speculaas flavour."

"They're supposed to be savory! Not sweet! Honestly, this is bread salad, not bread _dessert_ , you animal."

"Don't be mean to animals," says Netherlands.

"Do you really have bread dessert?" asks Canada.

"At least three kinds," supplies Netherlands.

"That's England-level cooking. It's just fuckin' bread."

"Just bread? _Just bread?_ You're wrong," says Prussia. "You're so very wrong. Our bread is easily the best in the world."

"I dunno," says Netherlands, offhanded and contemplative, and likely just pulling Prussia's leg because he knows this is an argument Prussia always wins, "it's pretty good, but have you had all the bread in all the world?"

"Listen," says Prussia flatly, gesturing with the knife again. "I'm a thousand-something? I've eaten a lot of bread in my time. Do you think bread this quality just shits itself out of an oven in Königsberg? No. I have put _thought_ and _effort_ and _skill_ into this craft and you will appreciate it."

"You have a lot of emotions about bread," says Canada.

" _I have a lot of emotions about bread!_ " Prussia shouts.

Then there's immense hot pain as he slices his finger open.

"FUCK," Prussia yells. His first instinct is, for some reason, to shake the blooming pain off. His hand drips red all over the cro- _bread salad_. Balsamic dressing for the bread salad. Delicious.

"Ohh, shit. That looks deep," says Canada. He sounds worried.

"It's fine," says Prussia angrily. "We'll wrap it and call it a day."

"Wrap it in what, do you even have a fucking first aid kit?"

No. Prussia has a handful of those little plastic bandages with pictures of cute little bugs on them. The cut is pretty deep. It's not even going to be a little bit enough. "We'll glue it together," he decides.

"Do you have any glue?" asks Netherlands.

"Candle wax," says Prussia.

"That's not very hygienic," says Netherlands.

"We'll suture it with your lighter!" Prussia growls.

"Christ. You're not a fucking field medic. Let's take you to a goddamn apotheek."

"Nothing's open," says Prussia.

"So go to the emergency?"

"I can't go to the emergency! It's just a flesh wound!"

"Yeah, in that your flesh is completely open? Honestly, man, just go."

Prussia pouts. "And the bread is ruined, which is worse!"

"Aw, you're worried about him," says Canada.

"Of course I'm worried about him, you fuckin dipshit?!" yells Netherlands. "Who do you think I am? I care! I care _so much!_ "

"Because you never let on, eh? You've got that face."

"There's nothing wrong with my face," says Netherlands.

"Yeah, you're not very in tune with your emotions," says Prussia. "And that's a _German brother_ saying so."

"Right? I've always thought that about him," says Canada.

"We just wanna know we're loved," says Prussia, bleeding on the countertop.

"Oh for gods' - look," says Netherlands. "None of us can drive because we're high as kites. Let's just find you a hospital."

" _No,_ " says Prussia. "No hospital."

"I'm actually probably okay to drive," says Canada. "Ohhh, shit, wait - no. I don't have my licence with me."

"Why the fuck don't you have your licence?" Netherlands demands. "What's wrong with you?"

"'Cause I don't wanna lose it here! I only travel with my passport. We'll call you an ambulance or something."

"No! I refuse! I can't call an ambulance or go to a hospital because then Germany will find out," Prussia says.

"Why is that bad?" asks Canada. "You're his brother, he should know -"

"Because I wanted the day off to get high but I told him I needed it off for religious reasons!" Prussia blurts.

There's silence.

"...And he actually believed you?" says Netherlands. "He's the real idiot here."

"Yeah, you're one of the least religious people I know," says Canada.

"You shoulda seen him in the crusading times," adds Netherlands.

"Super religious?"

"No, he was the worst religious person, ever. Trying to be like 'yeah I love Jesus so much' when he's really just there to fuck people's shit up. Watching him try to keep up the lie was hilarious. Anyway, Canada's right, we gotta get you to a hospital."

"No we don't," Prussia argues. "I'm not going anywhere. We'll just. Wrap this in a towel and hope for the best. It'll be gone by like, Friday."

"I don't see any towels around," says Canada.

"Friday? Do you even heal like you used to anymore?" asks Netherlands.

"Shit, Prussia!" shouts Canada. Now he looks mad. "What the fuck, man?"

"Wha-at?" What's Prussia done now?

"You didn't tell me you don't fuckin' heal anymore!"

"I do so! It just... takes me longer, that's all."

"Like a _human?!_ " Canada is outraged. "That shouldn't take you 'til Friday!"

" _No_ , I just - look, guys. I'm fine. I'm still hungry but I'm fine."

"Christ. You're such an asshole, eh? You know that? You should know that. Sit the fuck down, bud, I'm making you something to eat."

If that's all Prussia had to do to get Canada to make him food, he should cut himself more often! "Is it pancakes?" he asks slyly.

"I can make other shit than pancakes, you goshdarned cockgoblin."

"...But I want the pancakes."

"Sit. The fuck. Down," growls Canada. "Or I'll bean you with the frying pan."

"He's into that," says Netherlands.

"Ohhhh, it hurts so much!" says Prussia, full melodrama, clutching his hand to his chest and bleeding down his shirt. "I'm mortally wounded! Only pancakes will cure me!"

"Actually, you know what, I - I could also go for pancakes," admits Netherlands. "I just want carbs, any form. It's really starting to kick in."

"Oh _fuck right off_ , eh? I will mortally wound you both." Canada opens the cupboard. "You fucking asshole," he says, shutting it. "You have no fucking flour."

"Did you do _any_ groceries, at all?" asks Netherlands. "You told us to come by like, last week. That's ample opportunity."

"I got busy!" says Prussia.

"With shitposting online?"

" _Fine_ , we'll go out. Something's gotta be open."

Nothing is open.

Canada drives, Netherlands is shotgun and Prussia's in the back, leaning forward as far as he can. "Don't hurt my car. Are you making sure he isn't hurting my car?"

"Literally backseat driving," says Canada.

"I just wanna make sure you're not treating her poorly," says Prussia. "She's my _baby_."

"I'd be more worried if the cops catch us and find us high as balls, him also pretty high, and without a licence," says Netherlands.

"Wouldn't have to worry if we'd found a fucking place yet, eh?" grumbles Canada. "Look, why don't we just get to the centre, something's gotta be open where the tourists are, right?"

"It'll be expensive," says Netherlands.

"There's gotta be something here. Try the next street over."

"We already did," says Canada. "You just want to minimise the amount of time I'm driving."

"Well," says Prussia. "I mean. You're not wrong."

"Dammit, Prussia, can you calm your fuckin' mapletits, I am a perfectly safe driver -"

There's a loud BANG and the three of them are thrown forward as far as their seatbelts allow. Something's hit the right front side.

"Fuck," says Canada. "You have insurance, right?"

"Times like these a self-driving car would help," says Netherlands. "For those of us who aren't afraid of robots."

"I would trust a robot driver over you any day," says Prussia. "And I hate robots."

"Okay, normally? I'm perfectly safe. I just wanna put that out there."

"You're too high for this," says Netherlands. "We're all too high for this." He squints into the distance. "Is that a McDonalds?"

"No," shouts Canada. "No! I refuse. I did not come all the way to Berlin to hang out with you two and get high and go to a fucking McDonalds. I can't escape my brother at home. We're not fucking going to the fucking McDonalds."

They're sitting in the fucking McDonalds.

To be fair, it was early enough that they were still serving breakfast, so Prussia has his pancakes (with his bleedy hand held up and wrapped in napkins to quell the bleeding, but Prussia often forgets that he has to keep his hand up and from time to time a fry is killed in action, _that's not ketchup_ ); Netherlands orders everything on the menu that had potato or bread in it ("do you want that supersized? are you fucking kidding me can you see? my eyes? _Yes_ I want that supersized. I want them _all_ supersized. _Fill me with fries_." "You're really freaking the poor kid out right now. He's not paid enough for this."); and Canada's adamance in not eating anything broke down completely when he saw that German McDonalds have little cakes and tea.

"They also have toast filled with chocolate," adds Prussia. "They call it McToast."

"For fuck's sake," says Canada.

"Holy shit," says Netherlands, and his eyes go wide. "Do they make a speculoos version?"

"You should suggest it," says Prussia.

"No, that sounds disgusting," says Canada.

"Shut up and eat your breakfast cheesecake," says Prussia.

"This was the best fucking cheesecake I've had in years," says Canada. He throws the fork down. Only crumbs remain. "Do you have any idea how angry I am?"

"Booth is super comfy and we have three hours free wifi," says Prussia. "It's even fast. I can't complain. I'd like to, trust me, I really would."

"That fuckin' dick. How dare he," says Canada, who's still mad about his brother. "How fucking dare he."

Prussia's rolling another joint. "Try the Zupfkuchen next, it's the one with the little chocolate bits on it. It's fantastic and you'll probably die of delight. No, there's no Spekulatius version."

"Is that the one that was originally Russian?" asks Netherlands.

"I didn't hear that," says Prussia, and licks the joint shut. "You didn't say anything. Eat your fucking carbs." He tucks the joint behind his ear.

"You always go for carbs," says Canada. "Like I always go for sugar."

"You go for sugar when you're _not_ high," says Netherlands. "Every tooth is a sweet tooth. You can't explain maple syrup otherwise."

"I'm just wondering what you've got against protein, bud," says Canada.

" _I'm_ wondering why Prussia's eating this shitty meat substitute," says Netherlands, who consistently peels the meat out of the burgers and feasts on the buns.

"It's garbage," agrees Prussia, "but aren't we all garbage, sometimes?"

"I don't like eating protein unless it's actually protein," Netherlands explains. "This mystery shit just confuses me."

"But that doesn't apply to the potatoes," says Canada. "Or these ... whatever they are." He picks up one of the little fried nuggets.

"Chili cheese snackers," provides Prussia.

"That's disgusting," says Canada, and throws it back down.

"Aren't we all disgusting, sometimes?"

"Like I don't eat the powder, either," Netherlands explains.

This piques Prussia's attention. "What do you make shakes out of?"

Netherlands shrugs his massive shoulders and tilts his head from side to side to crack his thick neck. How the fuck can't he consume protein at an absurd pace, Prussia doesn't know. "Fruit, I guess."

"The protein part is just dried whey, you know that, right?"

"What _is_ whey, anyway?" asks Canada. Then he grins. "Hahaha. Way. Anywheeey."

"I want food to look like food," Netherlands says. "You and your robots, right? Me and my food that should just. It should look like what I expect it to. None of this powdered food or food in pill form."

"You guys are both luddites and hate progress," says Canada.

"Says the guy who wears flannel," argues Prussia.

"Flannel's amazing? You're jealous it doesn't look as good on you because you are like. Mister Fuckin' Monochrome, or something."

"Grey-white hair is in these days. I'm very chic. _You_ are wearing flannel. I don't see where there's even an argument worth having."

Netherlands has been silent for a spell but says, slowly, looking at his food like he's seeing through it, which is how Prussia knows he's about to say something either profound or ridiculous, "Guys... when human girls get wet, is that... I don't know."

"A miracle?" says Canada. "Only for you." Prussia laughs derisively.

"No no, you're a dumbass. I mean, what's it made of?"

"What's what made of?"

"The wet! Is it some kinda... protein?"

"Holy shit," says Canada, and begins to laugh.

Profound _and_ ridiculous. The best kind. The joint they smoked before setting foot in the McDonalds must have taken effect. "I see where you're going with this," says Prussia, "and you know what, you really don't need more protein. Just eat the powder like normal people."

"Holy shit!"

"Okay, I was actually just curious, in a theoretical way, and the powder is disgusting," says Netherlands. "No food should be powdered. Powdered sugar is bad enough."

"I know you think, wow, eat out an entire village and get strength, that's the logical idea, right, but it just doesn't work that way," says Prussia. Canada's face is hilarious but Prussia can't stop talking? This is probably a bad thing. This is how he knows that the joint has definitely taken effect. "I should know - what, you think I'm not a competitive asshole with a brother like mine? Just cause he's all 'ohh, look at me, I grew up with a constant full belly and now I'm a fucking Dorito figure'. Which is my doing, by the way. He can thank me for that." Holy fuck he has to stop talking. And yet, he cannot.

"You are eating my fries right now," says Netherlands, and so Prussia is, which he didn't even realise. What is coming out of his mouth and what is going into it is an uncontrollable mystery.

"And I'm enjoying them, because I put in my time, okay? I starved for this shit!"

"Okay, we all did," says Netherlands.

"There were times in my history I looked at a maggoty potato and thought 'oh that's extra nutrients,' so don't you talk to me about protein!"

"At least it looks like actual protein! I?? Ate tulip bulbs! Nothing but tulip bulbs! They don't even get maggots! I would have killed for maggots." Netherlands stops a second to think. "And also probably for human flesh. I mean, at that point if you're gonna kill someone for tiny bugs, it's just. That's impractical, right. That's a waste. I don't like waste."

"Exactly!" Prussia is glad Netherlands is finally starting to see it his way. Some way. _A_ way. Haha, whey. "So just eat the powder like normal people."

"Or, humans, like normal people."

Canada raps on the table twice. "Alright guys, that's enough, stop bringing up war times."

"Says the actual cannibal!" crows Netherlands.

"Yeah, look at wendigo North America over here tellin' us how to eat," says Prussia. Netherlands nods. "You're just as bad as my brother -"

"No, but tulip bulbs was 20th century, guys, that's off-limits except in jokes. Remember? We said." There's silence. "There was a pact!"

"I don't remember a pact," says Prussia.

"I _distinctly remember_ the pact," says Canada.

"These are jokes," says Netherlands. "I'm joking. Are you joking?"

" _I'm_ joking," says Prussia. It finally hits him. "Wait, _human_ girls? Are you saying you've never gotten one of us wet?"

"Except not actually us," says Canada, "because we don't have - well, I don't think we do?" He squints from Prussia to Netherlands and back again in disbelief. "Holy shit, bud."

"I didn't mean it like that!" says Netherlands, and now he's flushing red. "Of course I've gotten a girl wet. I mean one of us."

"Oh yeah?" Prussia leers. "Who?"

"Excuse you, I am a gentleman," says Netherlands primly, "I don't kiss lower lips and tell."

"When you put it like that, it sounds disgusting. You make everything hot sound so gross." Prussia pushes Netherlands' fries away. "I don't even wanna eat these anymore."

"Entirely the point. More for me," says Netherlands. He takes two, puts them in a V-formation in front of his mouth and licks between them. Prussia, despite the disgust, cracks up.

"...you have a _vagina?!?_ " whispers Canada like a secret, in a soft awed hush, with very wide eyes. Netherlands giggles and puts his head to the table, his shoulders shaking under his coat.

" _Alta_ ," says Prussia, in the frech Berlinerisch way, " _du bist total breet oda wa?_ "

High enough to get another piece of cake, because Canada returns with more food. For all of them, not just him. "I love you," says Prussia.

"I can't trust anything you say when you're high as balls," says Canada.

"I'm not the only one," says Prussia.

"Don't remind me, bud. I could barely walk back to the counter. I'm so glad they speak enough English because the only thing you've taught me is how to fuckin' tell people that they are high."

"Very useful vocabulary in times like this," says Netherlands. "Are those chicken nuggets?"

Canada pushes the box across the table and digs into his cake. "They gave me the biggest stink-eye, too. Fuckin' _rude_."

"They definitely know what we're doing," says Netherlands. "Someday they will be replaced by robots and there won't be any more stink eye. And then we'll miss the stink eye."

"They'll program them for it. I mean, it is 3pm, on Reformationstag," says Prussia, digging into his chicken wings. At least, he intends to, but then he has a chicken wing in hand, and more shit to say, so he winds up gesturing with it more than he eats it. "I think if robots did take over, we'd be considered, like, the equivalent of gut bacteria. Not the most helpful thing, but also kind of beneficial? Something you don't think about it too often. Or ever."

"That's the most disgusting thing you've ever said," says Canada, who is still eating his cake. "And you've said a lot of gross shit over the years."

"What, gut bacteria? It's still not as bad as Niederlande's menstruation conversation."

"Oh god please," says Canada. "Would you kindly _fuck right off_ , I was just getting hungry."

"I'm just saying," says Netherlands, with a full mouth. "How humans used to take care of these things is really fascinating. People in my country used to use blood moss."

"Thought that was used for war wounds?" says Prussia.

Netherlands squints and thinks. "Pretty sure the periods came first."

"Ehhh, I don't know," argues Prussia, "we've been killing each other a _long ass time_."

"Guys, please," says Canada.

"I just can't believe you made people go to a special place and bleed on everything when they could just make a pad out of something and carry on with their day," says Netherlands to Canada. "There's no point. Your tribes weren't that large, right? You're losing massive productivity. Why not leather, you're already making clothes out of it."

"Leather's not very absorbent," says Prussia, who has had armour made out of it, and bled all over it, and should know. He looks down at his hand. It's still bleeding. Not as freely, though, which is a plus. He squints and looks again and his hand goes black-and-white.

"I don't know, it does a good job at holding a cow together," says Netherlands.

"Holding a cow together - do you even fuckin' listen to yourself," says Canada. "Jesus christ. Why do you guys always get so ... bodily fluids."

"Anyway, I'm hungry," says Prussia. He remembers there's a chicken wing in his hand. It's not even been bled on. Delicious!

"I can't believe you are after this conversation," says Canada.

Prussia shrugs. "Strong stomach," he says, his mouth full of chicken wing.

"Obese people," says Netherlands philosophically, "are also body builders, just in a different way."

"Jep. So are pregnant people," says Prussia.

"Oh my god," says Netherlands, awed.

"Oh my god," says Canada, but in a completely different manner. "Is this where this is gonna go now? Are we gonna be eating babies?"

"What? No. You're a monster," says Netherlands.

"I meant the conversation topic, and you know that I meant that."

"Still a monster?" decides Netherlands.

"If you're a lady and pregnant with a baby boy," thinks Prussia aloud, "then you're literally growing a penis."

"You're not going to eat it, are you?" says Canada, worried.

"Hungary wanted one, once," says Prussia. "I should've told her she should've just gotten laid. And pregnant. Would've saved her a lot of time."

"Who the hell would want one?" says Netherlands. "Boobs are where it's at. They're round and soft and they don't hurt like balls getting kicked do."

"You should tell Hungary she needs to get laid," says Prussia. "Then we'll see exactly how much balls getting kicked hurts."

"You would also have two butts," says Canada. "Don't eat those." He looks very concerned about this.

"No no, remember, I only eat real food," says Netherlands, "not baby food."

"Food that's for babies, or made of babies?" This seems to concern him less, somehow.

Netherlands takes a good ten seconds to think about it. "Both," he decides.

"How can you talk about baby eating, but you don't wanna talk about bodily fluids," says Prussia. "This just seems hypocritical."

"I think we need..." Canada pauses for dramatic effect again, "...more weed. Are you done bleeding all over the table?"

"I've barely started my chicken wings," says Prussia.

But the box is empty. "Oh," says Prussia.

"I thought you were done with those," says Netherlands. He holds two chicken wings. He looks at them, then he looks at Prussia, and then he licks both chicken wings and then holds them out to Prussia. "Here, you want 'em back?"

"You're a monster," says Prussia. He looks at Canada. "You're a monster too. You're all monsters. I knew this the moment you entered my house and put your coats wherever."

"You don't have a coatrack," says Netherlands.

"You didn't even go looking for it!"

"I didn't have to, because I already knew you would have spent more money on bread than a coatrack," says Netherlands.

"And there's no bread in IKEA," says Canada. He thinks. "At least not my IKEAs. Maybe German IKEAs have bread."

"No," says Prussia sadly, "they don't."

"Guys, I'm so glad we have flesh to hold ourselves together," says Canada.

"Yeah," says Prussia, looking at his hand. "Sometimes."

"Is that gonna be okay?" asks Netherlands.

"Äääähm.... probably?" Prussia doesn't know. "It's still bleeding," he notes. "Usually it's stopped by now."

"Well, don't bleed on my chicken wings," says Netherlands. "Your chicken wings."

"Your sympathy is astounding," says Prussia. He glances down at his phone. "Fuck. We're out of wifi."

"Back to the car?" says Netherlands.

"Back to the car," agrees Canada.

They're back in the car. They're not going anywhere, because they found a good parking spot and Canada somehow managed to parallel park Prussia's poor baby decently (it's not actually decent, it's about 20cm away from the side of the road, which would be intolerable were Prussia sober but he is not) and they are, against Prussia's wishes, hotboxing.

"I'm never gonna get the smell out of the car now," he says, but takes a long drag and exhales slowly. It almost looks like a smoke ring. He feels accomplished.

"What'll you tell your brother?" asks Canada.

"He never drives with me anyway. Either he picks me up or we take separate cars. On that note, I think I'm safe."

"What's up with that, eh? Thought you two were like, brothers."

"Sure, that doesn't mean we're attached at the hip. You attached to yours?"

"Well, no," admits Canada, "but we're different sovereign nations."

"You sure about that?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Canada mutters darkly. He takes a longer puff and exhales a ladder of smoke rings, perfect and well-formed. Fucking show-off. "Anyway, I thought it'd be different 'cause you're the same nation. You are the same nation, right?"

"Sure," says Prussia, feeling awkward. "I don't think about it too much."

"The Italies are like that too," says Netherlands.

"Can you imagine being stuck to Veneziano? I mean, love the guy, but it'd be like dragging a corpse behind you." Prussia shakes his head. "Don't know how Romano does it."

"He deals with his anger using... _more_ anger, I think," says Netherlands.

"No, he's got a sense of humour somewhere in there," says Canada. "I've seen it before. I think. It was a long fuckin' time ago."

"Hah. All Germany has is disappointment," says Prussia. "I don't care. I don't care at all." He cares _so much_.

"That's harsh," says Netherlands. "I feel like we're talking about our feelings. I'm not down with that."

"Yeah, me neither. Look, whatever, just as long as he doesn't get so depressed he gets the idea to make Prussia great again, again. I almost didn't survive that."

"Yeah," says Canada.

Netherlands is the one who raps on the car door. "No wars," he says sternly.

"No wars," echo Prussia and Canada.

"What time is it even?" asks Canada.

"I dunno," says Netherlands. "I'd have to turn on the car to find out, and if I did that, then the cop behind us would get so mad."

"Shit, there's a _cop behind us?_ " Prussia turns around so fast he hurts his neck. "Fuck," he says. "Jesus that hurt."

"You're a real mess today," says Netherlands, laughing.

"This isn't funny! Now Germany's definitely gonna find out we were high." Prussia can hear the diatribe now. _Brother, how dare you. What would Luther think?_

"Hm," says Canada. "Can I ask, how?"

"What?"

"Well, how? Like, is Germany cc'd on everything that comes through the police station or something, how is he gonna find out?"

"I- I actually don't know," says Prussia. "He just always _does_ , somehow."

Canada's face breaks into a huge grin. " _Guys_ ," he says, excited, "this is our quest!"

"I thought our quest was finding food," says Netherlands. "We already did that."

"McDicks doesn't count as fuckin' food. Stop. No, I mean, we figure out where the paper trail goes and how Germany finds out about shit!"

" _Or_ , we could all just lay super low," says Prussia, "and cop guy will keep driving, and nobody needs to know anything."

"I'm doing this," says Canada, and puts his hand on the ignition.

"NO!" shouts Prussia. He dives into the front seat to stop him.

"Pruisen, your ass is in my face," says Netherlands.

Prussia is busy wrestling Canada for control of the keys. "You love it," he says.

"I don't think I do," says Netherlands.

"You didn't even do anything to stop him, you traitor," says Prussia. "What fucking use of shotgun is this?"

"Netherlands!" shrieks Canada, in Prussia's ears no less, "we have a quest! Join the quest! Roll for initiative!"

"What the fuck is this DnD nerd shit," says Netherlands.

"Don't act like you're too cool for it," says Canada, "you're getting the references, aren't you?"

Honestly, thinks Prussia. "Shit, why couldn't we just have stayed at home and played DnD instead of be in a car behind the wheel with a cop coming up behind us after the _whole car is filled with smoke_ so my brother can bail me out of jail."

"I thought you didn't care about the disappointment," says Netherlands.

"Don't you know when I'm posturing? How long have you known me?"

Netherlands finishes the joint he's rolling, tucks it in his breast pocket, and then deftly worms a hand through the two of their bodies to pluck the keys. "Cop's gone anyway," he says.

"Christ," says Prussia, heaving a sigh. He flops back into the back seat. His head is spinning. Probably the adrenaline. "Finally."

"Maybe..." says Canada dramatically, "... he was _never there to begin with!_ " He gasps. Then he realises something. "Hey guys, how the fuck're we gonna get back home?"

"S-bahn?" says Netherlands.

"We're 500 m away," says Prussia. "Did you not realise we never really left? We could just walk."

"Isn't there that park along the way?" says Canada. "Spotted it when we were driving by."

"I knew you weren't watching the _fucking road_ ," says Prussia.

They're in the park.

"This is the saddest park," says Canada. "It's basically just a field and a path."

"Not everything needs to have a tiny jungle gym in it to be called a park," says Netherlands.

"You could have a fuckin' bench or two! What're we gonna do, walk and smoke?"

Netherlands lights up the joint and takes a few quick puffs. "If it were nicer weather we'd just sit on the ground," he says.

"Except it's not," says Prussia, batting at the air. "So it's fall now, right, and I really have to ask why there are still mosquitoes fucking everywhere. Why aren't they dead yet. What are they even doing."

"Maybe it's not really cold enough for them to die off?" Canada shrugs.

"It's 12 fucking degrees during the day. At night it's 5."

"Ye-eah, I wouldn't call that cold."

"These things can't be alive."

"Chemtrails," says Canada.

"They're _tiny drones_ ," says Prussia. He's sarcastic, but then he takes another drag and he almost believes the nonsense he's saying. Things are starting to get a little hazy. His hand has pins and needles in it. Everything has pins and needles in it. At least things aren't black and white anymore.

"Spreading chemtrails," says Canada.

"But that's so terrible for the environment," says Prussia. "Why would they _do_ this?"

"Teach the controversy," says Canada.

"Poor guy's lost a lotta blood. You should really stop enabling him," says Netherlands.

"But that is what I'm best at,"  Canada protests.

Prussia stops, and they all stop too to wait for him to keep walking again. When he doesn't, they look up.

"Humans," says Prussia, his hands gesturing wildly, "are a super AI invented by mother nature, and now we are slowly destroying our creator, which is the exact same thing we are afraid of happening with robotic AI today."

Silence reigns.

"It all comes full circle," says Prussia.

There's more silence.

Then all three of them burst out into laughter. "Holy _fuck_ ," says Canada.

"That's the deepest thing I've ever said," adds Prussia, wheezing, "and we're too high to appreciate my fucking poetry."

"Good god," says Netherlands. "Don't die, okay? I'll miss these dumbass things you say."

"Were you really worried about me?" asks Prussia.

"'Course I'm worried about you, idiot. You're my friend."

"Aww," says Prussia, "that's so sweet."

A moment of somewhat awkward silence passes.

"I think I'm gonna pass out!" says Prussia cheerfully.

"Oh christ," says Canada, and everything goes black and white again. No, wait - just black.

When he wakes up, they've somehow returned home. Prussia's on the terrible lumbar support couch with his feet on Canada's lap and his head off the side, and Netherlands is in the single armchair, his long legs crossed in front of him, and they're watching a movie with an open pizza box. Prussia squints; it looks like Harold and Kumar.

Friendship is carrying your passed out body up five flights of stairs.

"How the fuck," says Prussia.

"We called out for pizza," says Canada.

"Your mail was overflowing, and there was a flyer in it for a pizza place," explains Netherlands.

"And there was a twenty in your wallet, but nothing in your fridge," says Canada.

"You stole my money, but you brought me pizza," says Prussia. "I am very conflicted."

"I can't believe none of us remembered that delivery is a thing that happens this century," says Netherlands.

"I mean, I believe it from you two old farts, but I really should've remembered," says Canada.

"Think the guy across from you is pissed, delivery guy's loud coming up the stairs," says Netherlands.

"He's pissed we aren't sharing," says Prussia. "You two still smoking?"

"No," says Canada. "We're sobering up a bit, then we'll go again in an hour."

"Aw," says Prussia. "No fun."

"Do you have any idea how much we've already smoked," says Netherlands. "Of everything we brought to last us through tomorrow, we've smoked about three quarters."

"You guys are staying 'til tomorrow?" Prussia grins. "That's pretty sweet," he says.

"It's already 10 pm," says Canada, "and we're too high to leave."

"We're taking the bed," says Netherlands.

"It's my bed," complains Prussia.

"You're a shit host," says Canada.

"It's not big enough for three," says Netherlands.

"We'll squeeze," says Prussia. "Someone's gotta take care of my poor hand."

"We already did," says Canada.

"Oh," says Prussia. Sure enough, there is gauze wrapped around it. How did this get here?

"Told the delivery guy to bring some gauze from their first-aid kit when he came and he'd get an extra tip," says Netherlands. "But, uh, you're not gonna like it..."

"What," says Prussia.

"Delivery guy somehow already knew your place, and your house, and was not surprised to see you, or the fact that you needed minor medical assistance," says Canada. "In fact, he seemed to recognise you. If you were conscious maybe you'd've recognised him. Anyway, I think that's your leak to your brother," he says.

"Are you kidding me," says Prussia. He thinks. "I'm almost proud," he decides. "That's pretty clever. I mean, I'll have words with him, because I don't like being kept tabs on, but I'm gonna give him points for creativity on this one."

"He's worried about you," says Canada, distantly and distracted, and very soft. "Maybe someday you'll somehow get it through your thick ass head that we all are."

"Hm? I missed that, what'd you say?"

"I said sit there and shut up and replenish your goddamn blood, you fuckin' hoser, so we can get high again," says Canada. Netherlands bites out a cackle of a laugh, and they continue to watch some potheads attempt to find sustenance. Prussia drifts in and out, because Canada's lap is a lot comfier than the couch, and it's not a lot different from what happened earlier this afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is obvious, but just to reiterate, don't drive while high. In fact don't do anything they do in this fic, including eating at McDonalds and fearing the robot revolution.


End file.
